Three Days in the Caribbean Sun
by za
Summary: Stuck alone for three days, with only the sun and rum for company...why, a man could go mad.


Title: Three Days In the Caribbean Sun: Marooned

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean characters, likenesses, and original plot lines belong to Disney, not me. There's no money being made off this, nor infringement meant.

Author's Notes: Just came to me, and as it's been so long since I've written anything…here goes.

***

It was the sound of swords being sharpened that pulled him from his drunk sleep, and Captain Jack lifted his head to look around in annoyance. It took a moment for the crust of sleep and the lightheadedness of rum to leave him, but when the fog inside his head cleared, he was shocked to see the crew around his narrow bed, swords in their hands, crowded into the tiny bunk, in between bed and table, grim expressions on everyone's faces.

Drat.

This must be about last night.

He didn't know what he said – didn't have the faintest idea what he might have done, though little would surprise him – but it certainly must have been a doozy.

Barbossa stood closest to his face, teeth caked in grime and an almost leering grimace made somehow a dozen times worse by the scimitar in his left hand. 

"Oh good, Captain," there was a mocking tone to the last word. "We was almos' afraid we'd have tae wait fer ye tae wake up nat'rally." The stench of unwashed sailor hung about Barbossa's tattered shirt and tar-coated trousers, and bits of food flecked his beard. Jack found himself recoiling unconsciously. 

"Look, mates," he sat up as quickly as his aching head would allow and fished around the bedtable with one hand for a bottle. Finding none, he brought both hands back in front of his chest and gave them as winning a smile as possible. "Ye all know tha', wha'ever I might 'ave said last night, it was all in good foolin', eh? An' so, wha'ever I might 'ave said, because it was in good foolin', it was not important, eh? An' if it was so unimportant, ye really need tae discount-"

He was cut off by the sharp blade of Barbossa's scimitar at his throat. At Jack's surprised expression, Barbossa began to chuckle, a deep almost hacking laugh that sounded more like the cough of a dying man than an expression of amusement. After a moment, the rest of the crew began to smile and chortle as well. In the gloom of the captain's quarters, there was nothing reassuring about this laughter.

"Now, mates," Jack tried again, smiling as if he thought this was a hysterical joke and that any moment it would all be ok again. He started to talk again with, "Let's get back tae work," but was cut off by Barbossa's throaty voice.

"Nae, Jack, what ye told us last night was more tha' a little 'elpful. So 'elpful, in fact, that we don't really need ye anymore."

"What?" Jack's eyes were huge, suspcious.

"We'll bae continuin' on without ye." At Jack's silence, he continued. "Ye're bein' let go. Ye're fired." At this he cracked another disgusting smile, flecks of apple stuck between his teeth, and the crew chuckled again.

It took a moment for the meaning of this to penetrate Jack's headache. "A mutiny."

Silent nods all around.

"We're as close tae th' island as we're goin' tae get, so ye'd best get up and ready tae go," Barbossa laughed at him, then turned to head back to the deck. 

And then, somehow, he was out in the blinding sun of the deck. The bo'sun handed Jack his belt, sword and pistol dangling from it. Jack lifted the hem of his coat, buckled the belt about his waist, then frowned at the bo'sun took his hands and began looping frayed lengths of old rags tightly around the wrists. 

"Ye'll regret this, Barbossa," Jack called to the other man, who stood proudly, one foot on the rail of the ship. The humidity of the day and the pain of his hangover made Jack feel dizzy, and the clear blue of the water over the railing looked almost inviting – that is, were he just going for a swim, it might have been exciting, but as he was being deposed in a somewhat violent way…well, it somehow lacked appeal.

"Nae, Jack, some'ow, I think tha' when we reach the Isla de Muerta, I won't regret a damn thing. I have a feelin' tha' leaving ye 'ere with tha' shot and finding yer fortune will make me a very 'appy man." Jack could feel a rough prodding at the base of his back, and he moved up onto the plank, hands held in front of him and fingers going numb. He turned on his heel, the plank wavering under his feet, and fixed his eyes on Barbossa's face.

"I'm talkin' about yer soul. An' that ye're goin' tae burn in Hell fer doin' this."

The crew laughed around him, the kind of cheerful noise that might have once lifted his spirits, and he felt a shiver down his spine despite the tropical heat and the sweat on his face from the morning sun. 

"One las' thing, afore ye go," Barbossa said, suddenly serious. Jack looked up at him, his eyes flashing anger at this whole exercise. "I'll be wantin' yer hat."

There was another explosion of laughter, loud and bracing as cannonfire, and Jack felt someone behind him forcibly remove the garment and push him closer to the edge of the plank. 

"Remember, mates," Jack yelled over their cheering and chanting as Barbossa placed the hat on his head. "I am Captain Jack Sparrow, and I'll be back tae get back me-"

But then there was a jostle of the plank and it was into the sea he went.

Crystalline waters, and clumsy swimming with his hands tied together. He was able to get back above water, breathing heavily as he tried to figure out what to do. Already the ship – his ship, dammit, his Pearl – was heading away, towards the Isle de Muerte. 

Without him

Without him, the captain.

God, that hurt. 

He headed, slowly with his wrists bound, to the sandy beach ahead of him, in the faint hope that they had miscalculated and that someone might be there. Natives who farmed sugarcane and yams would be better than no one at all, he tried to convince himself.

But as he washed exhaustedly on the shore, bonds loosened and clothing soaked, face burning from the combination of sun and salt, he knew he was alone. The island was idyllic, with palm fronds and untainted white sand, the waves washing upon it the clear turquiose of most Caribbean water, and the sky above equally pure – not a cloud in sight, and from the position of the sun, midday was closing in.

What a perfect place to die.


End file.
